


Written in the Software

by LeapAngstily



Series: Glitches in the Reality [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dystopia, Infidelity, M/M, Monto has issues, Sexual Content, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1975503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A letter, one simple letter that will determine the rest of your life. Three different unions, one boy who waited, and another one who was let down far too early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written in the Software

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this amazing prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/10208.html?thread=5686240#t5686240) on [footballkink2](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com) on livejournal: _“Imagine a dystopian society in which you don't decide who you will marry. The system does, actually a computer tells you who is your "perfect" match that you have to marry. Only, it's not always perfect.”_
> 
> I’m afraid the pairings might not be what the OP was thinking of, even if they said it’s all up to the writer. I just saw my chance to write Monto/Memo and shamelessly took it. I tried to include as many of the suggested scenarios as possible into this one story, so I hope it fulfils at least some of the wonderful anon’s wishes.

_File 1: Giampaolo & Riccardo_  
  
  
Riccardo remembers the first time he held Giampaolo’s hand like it was only yesterday.  
  
They were just teenagers, mere steps into the puberty, and neither of them actually knew what it all meant, what that curious feeling inside their chests could stand for.  
  
They had no idea what love was at the time, but from that very first contact, they knew this was the person they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with.  
  
That was when they first understood what it meant when their parents and teachers told them there was a perfect match for everyone: the perfect match that the government would formalize when the time was right.  
  
Riccardo knew Giampaolo was his perfect match right from the beginning, and Giampaolo knew Riccardo was his – there was no doubt in their young minds about that.  
  
  
  
  
  
“I’m home, Ricky!” Giampaolo calls out from the door, kicking his shoes off and dropping his bag on the chair by the door.  
  
He is responded by silence – maybe Riccardo is still at work, stuck covering the football transfer market because no one knows it quite as well as Riccardo – so Giampaolo decides to head straight for the shower before focusing on the dinner.  
  
He is surprised to find Riccardo in the bedroom when he walks in to pick up his towel, his boyfriend’s legs twisted in unnatural angles where he is lying on the wide bed.  
  
“So you were home. Why didn’t you say anything? I thought you were stuck working overtime again,” Giampaolo strides over to the bed, dropping a playful peck on Riccardo’s lips.  
  
Riccardo does not return the kiss.  
  
“You got your letter,” he says instead, his voice flat, and it is only now that Giampaolo notices the unopened pink envelope in Riccardo’s hands, “Mine’s not here.”  
  
A letter,  _the letter_ , the one that will finally make their union official, after over a decade of being together, living in the same apartment for almost a half of it.  
  
“What, you’re worried they’re gonna break us up after all this time?” Giampaolo asks with a laugh, flopping down on the bed next to Riccardo, wrapping an arm around his waist, “Have you ever heard of them separating established couples, especially ones living together?”  
  
“No,” Riccardo admits hesitantly, turning the envelope in his hands thoughtfully, “But I’ve also never heard of them sending the letters at different times.”  
  
“Stop it, silly,” Giampaolo presses a gentle kiss on his shoulder before reaching for the letter, pulling it out of Riccardo’s hands, “It’s just the postal service being shitty again. You know how it is – we always get complaints from the subscribers too!”  
  
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Riccardo finally smiles at him, turning to his side as Giampaolo starts opening the envelope, carefully not to rip the papers inside, “It’s just stressful – we’ve waited for so long and now this—”  
  
His voice dies out when the letter slips out of Giampaolo’s hands, falling all the way to the floor, but neither of them notices it – Giampaolo’s shocked gaze is fixed on his now empty hands, while Riccardo’s full attention is on him, hands grasping his face, asking what is the matter, worry clenching his insides.  
  
“A woman,” Giampaolo whispers, the look in his eyes helpless, lost, when he finally meets Riccardo’s searching gaze, “It’s a woman.”  
  
Riccardo’s eyes find the papers on the carpet almost reluctantly – it is a carpet they chose together when they first moved in, a striking red that complements the softer colours around the rest of the room.  
  
Three sheets of paper: official information for the marriage arrangements, a cordial letter informing Giampaolo that his spouse has been identified, and a profile page printed on the same light pink paper as the envelope it arrived in.  
  
Riccardo scrambles to pick up that third paper, refusing to believe Giampaolo’s words without making sure of it himself.  
  
The happy smile of the blonde woman on the paper is almost taunting him. A woman that is going to take away  _his_  perfect match, his Giampaolo.  
  
There must be some misunderstanding, some kind of a mix up.  
  
But the woman in the picture does not go away, the name on the paper does not magically turn into his, and Riccardo can feel his heart breaking into tiny pieces.  
  
  
  
  
  
Riccardo spends Giampaolo’s wedding day getting drunk in a shady pub close to their home – their former home as the things stand – ignoring the pestering calls, blocking out the annoying ringing until it becomes too much and he has to turn off his phone completely.  
  
He has gone through every article of the legislation, sent numerous letters to the government, to the maintainers of the database, even to the international supervising committee of the spouse program.  
  
All for nothing: Giampaolo is still marrying Silvia today, because  _“The software does not lie”_  and  _“We are terribly sorry to inform you that there is no mistake in the information sent to you.”_  
  
Riccardo sits at the bar, knocking back a shot after shot, until he can almost forget Giampaolo and the whole decade he spent believing he had found the love of his life.  
  
He is only half-aware of himself by the time he comes to a conclusion: he cannot stay in this town, cannot face Giampaolo ever again, cannot sit and wait for that blasted software to spit out his name along with someone that is  _not_  the only man he has ever wanted in his life.  
  
Riccardo resigns from his job the very next day, hangover pounding his skull as he calls the editor in chief, and within a week he drives to Milan with all his scarce belongings, a handful of job interviews lined up for him.  
  
The hotel room he is staying in for the time being is small and stuffy. The colour of his striking red carpet clashes with the rest of the interior, but he still spreads it on the floor, the only reminder of Giampaolo he could not give up.  
  
Riccardo falls asleep on that carpet, curled up on the worn fabric, dreaming of the wedding ceremony they never had – the ceremony that was stolen from them.  
  
A whole life that was stolen from them, actually. Stolen by the very same system that they had put their faith in, the system that was supposed to ensure the happiness and harmony in the society.  
  
That is when Riccardo finally understands that those beautiful words about true loves and perfect matches had been lies all along.  
  
  
 _File 2: Pippo & Andrea_  
  
  
“I got my letter today,” Riccardo gasps out as Andrea keeps pounding into him, every thrust fast and deep, his hips slapping against the insides of Riccardo’s sweaty thighs.  
  
“About the time, isn’t it?” Andrea answers, his rhythm unfaltering, and he leans in to suck on Riccardo’s neck, biting the skin right next to his Adam’s apple before speaking again, his voice nothing more than a low growl, “You’re turning thirty next year: shouldn’t you be happily married by now?”  
  
“Hell if I know?” Riccardo grits out, wrapping his arms tightly around Andrea’s neck, mirroring his legs already gripping Andrea’s hips, “Fuck yes, harder!”  
  
Andrea follows the request, picking up his pace and driving himself into Riccardo’s clenching body with all the force he has, not stopping even though Riccardo spills his seed between their bodies, crying out as the orgasm takes him by surprise.  
  
Andrea keeps fucking Riccardo for a few minutes longer, and then he stills, buried completely inside him, grunting against Riccardo’s neck as he finds his release.  
  
“When’s Pippo coming home?” Riccardo asks once they have both caught their breaths, albeit still too spent to actually get off the bed.  
  
“Should be any minute now,” Andrea mumbles, lying on his side facing Riccardo, half of his face hidden in the soft pillows. He is caressing Riccardo’s abdomen absent-mindedly, calloused fingers running over the soft skin.  
  
Riccardo’s eyes settle on the picture on the bedside table – it was taken during Andrea and Pippo’s ten-year anniversary dinner two years ago, the smiling couple obviously still so very much in love.  
  
  
  
  
  
Riccardo had been there too, sitting right next to Andrea in the main table, laughing at Pippo’s dry jokes, trying to keep a straight face as Andrea kept caressing his thigh under the tablecloth, deliberately teasing him until Riccardo had to excuse himself and go jerk off in the toilets.  
  
The sound of the front door opening shakes Riccardo out of the embarrassing memories, and he jumps up to pick up his boxers from the door.  
  
He manages to pull the underwear on just as Pippo walks into the bedroom. Andrea is still lying on the bed, relaxed, too unbothered to even pull a sheet to cover himself as he greets his husband with a wide smile.  
  
“Long time no see, Ricky,” Pippo ignores Andrea pointedly, keeping his attention on their guest instead, picking up his t-shirt from the floor and handing it to Riccardo with a knowing smile, “Everything fine at work?”  
  
“Yeah, though not thanks to you,” Riccardo grins and pulls his shirt on before leaning in to give Pippo a quick hug, “How many times is Milan gonna switch managers before you’re satisfied?”  
  
“I’ll try not to get fired, okay?” Pippo laughs good-naturedly, patting Riccardo on the back before finally turning to Andrea, climbing on the bed and pulling him into a familiar kiss.  
  
“Ricky’s getting married,” Andrea tells him once they break the kiss, glancing at Riccardo who is now fully clothed, getting ready to go home. He regrets telling Andrea anything at all when Pippo turns his attention back to him as well.  
  
“Oh, and who’s the lucky guy?” Pippo asks with a curious smile, sitting up and pulling Andrea along with him, wrapping his arm around his husband’s waist possessively.  
  
“Dunno, didn’t open the letter yet,” Riccardo answers with a shrug of feigned nonchalance, clutching his bag where the offending envelope has been waiting the whole day.  
  
“That won’t do,” Andrea huffs, finally getting out of the bed, walking over to Riccardo in all his naked glory and grabbing the bag from his hands “We need to make sure our Ricky gets a man he deserves, right Pippo?”  
  
Pippo hums an affirmative from the bed, offering a crooked smile to Riccardo who can feel a flush spreading over his cheeks. He had been hoping to avoid this conversation until he was forced to contact his mother, but obviously that was too much to ask for.  
  
Andrea rips the envelope open, pulling out the familiar three papers, two white sheets and one light pink, whistling quietly as he studies the spouse profile, “What’s up with you and international marriages? Isn’t your mom foreigner as well?”  
  
“Yeah, she’s German. Why?” Riccardo tries to sneak a peek into the papers, but Andrea is too quick, pushing the whole envelope into Pippo’s waiting hands.  
  
“He’s cute,” Pippo comments as he takes a look at the photo, before scanning the actual profile, “Mexican? You’ve studied Spanish, haven’t you?”  
  
“What?!” Riccardo grabs the envelope from Pippo’s hand, almost crumbling the papers in his hold as he lets the information sink in, “This has to be a joke. Even  _they_  can’t fuck up this badly.“  
  
  
  
  
  
“What the fuck do I have in common with a Mexican dolphin trainer?” Riccardo asks under his breath, the old anger towards this stupid system building up inside him, “Just look at him – there’s no way we’re compatible in any way.”  
  
“You can’t know for sure,” Andrea tells him softly, wrapping his arms around Riccardo’s waist, kissing his cheek comfortingly, “For all we know, he might be the love of your life.”  
  
“Yeah, just look at us: no one thought we’d be compatible when we were first put together,” Pippo quips in, sitting on the edge of the bed, not even flinching as Andrea kisses the side of Riccardo’s mouth, pressing their foreheads together as he keeps assuring Riccardo it is not the end of the world.  
  
Pippo and Andrea are not exactly a good example for a healthy marriage, both of them more than happy to keep other lovers on the side, practically allergic to the word “monogamous”, which is probably why Riccardo likes them so much.  
  
It is probably also the reason why they are so well-matched, even if the government would never approve of the way they have sidestepped the marriage laws like they meant nothing.  
  
Infidelity is normally punishable by the law, sentences ranging from a substantial fine from the first offence up to life imprisonment from completely disregarding the marriage institution.  
  
Riccardo is fairly sure Pippo and Andrea’s marriage falls into the latter category, but luckily for them – and for Riccardo who would be considered guilty by association – they have mastered the systematic cheating over the years: no one gets jealous, no one gets hurt, and everything happens behind the closed doors of their own home.  
  
A marriage like that would be the best case scenario for Riccardo as well, but he doubts he will be that lucky, not after all the proof he has that the whole system is designed primarily to ruin his life.  
  
“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it either way,” Riccardo shrugs off his worries, pulling away from Andrea’s embrace and heading for the door, stuffing the papers back into his bag as he goes, “I’ll just see what happens. Maybe it won’t be that bad.”  
  
Riccardo does not even believe his own words, but he is not about to show that to his friends.  
  
He will travel to Brazil for this year’s international meet up, organized only once in every four years because of the rareness of the international marriages, and he will meet his prospective spouse, because that is the law.  
  
But he will not look forward to it, he will not enjoy it, and he will sure as hell not pretend he is happy about it.  
  
  
 _File 3: Memo_  
  
  
” _Piacere di conoscerti. Il mio nome è Memo Ochoa._ ” Nice to meet you. My name is Memo Ochoa.  
  
It is the only thing he can say in Italian, found on the internet and learnt by heart just for this occasion.  
  
“ _Piacere di conoscerti_ ,” Memo repeats under his breath for the umpteenth time, looking around the large stadium in hopes of finding a familiar face among the throngs of people, “ _Il mio nome è Memo Ochoa_.”  
  
He is clutching the pink paper in his hands, afraid he might miss his chance if he puts it down even for a moment. This is the day he has been waiting for since he was a teenager and his first friends were set up with their spouses.  
  
” _Piacere di conoscerti. Il mio nome è Memo Ochoa._ ”  
  
  
  
  
  
Memo’s mother had given up on him already, convinced he had been forgotten by the time he turned 26. Memo himself gave up at 27, when the last of his old friends got married and settled down, expecting children, forming their own families.  
  
Now, at almost 29 years of age, he is in Brazil to meet his future husband. His mother had cried, but they had been tears of happiness.  
  
The only reason he had to wait this long was because his spouse was a foreigner, an Italian, so the letter came only when the international meet up came about.  
  
Memo is relieved, but he is also nervous beyond belief – this is it, this is the meeting that will determine the rest of his life.  
  
He has the meeting time and place dotted down behind the profile sheet – just half an hour left and then he can walk to those numbered cubicles lined along the sides of the stadium – but he is hoping to catch an early look of his spouse. Of  _Riccardo_.  
  
Memo had been surprised to find out his spouse was a man, because it was something he had never considered aside from some curious experimentation back in high school.  
  
But the more he studied the profile of Riccardo, the surer he became that this was no mistake – the man in the black and while photo was handsome, with wavy hair and slight stubble, and the text underneath revealed he was only a bit older than Memo, with a well-paying job and a loving family.  
  
Memo’s grandmother had studied the profile carefully as well, squinting her eyes suspiciously, but in the end she had declared that Memo could have done a lot worse, even though she had hoped for great-grandchildren that were her own flesh and blood.  
  
“Just remember to bring the lad here before he swipes you off to Italy, you hear me?”  
  
That is the one thing Memo is afraid of – aside from the obligatory  _what if he doesn’t like me_ , of course. How is he going to settle in Italy without knowing the language? He cannot ask Riccardo to quit his job and move to Mexico, not with his measly salary at the Six Flags.  
  
” _Piacere di conoscerti. Il mio nome è Memo Ochoa,_ ” he whispers, earning confused looks from a newly-acquainted couple just walking past him.  
  
It will be fine. The software never lies: it would not have set him up with someone he was not compatible with. Riccardo would help him, and Memo would learn the language because he had to.  
  
Memo glances at his wristwatch, surprised to notice how the time has flown past him. There is no sight of Riccardo – or at least Memo does not recognize him from the picture – so there is nothing more Memo can do but to go to the appointed meeting place.  
  
Memo is getting more nervous with each step he takes towards the right cubicle – cubicle number 18 – and he fixes his hair anxiously, trying to make his curls appear as airy as possible.  
  
The cubicle is empty, but the lady standing at the door smiles warmly and ushers him to sit down, assuring him it would not be long before he could meet his chosen one.  
  
It takes five minutes and forty-three seconds – Memo is staring at his watch so he knows the exact time – before Riccardo appears at the cubicle door: nicely dressed, hair wind-tousled, and eyes the prettiest blue Memo has ever seen.  
  
Memo forgets what he was supposed to say as Riccardo slips into the cubicle and sits down across from him, regarding him curiously, one eyebrow raised.  
  
“Sorry for making you wait. Nice to meet you, I’m Riccardo Montolivo,” Riccardo introduces himself in an accented Spanish that is still far better than Memo’s Italian could ever be. Memo wants to answer that he knows – of course he knows, this is the man he has been waiting to meet since the letter arrived two months ago!  
  
The words get stuck at his throat. It should not be this difficult: Memo has never been shy, and Riccardo obviously understands Spanish so his worries about the language barrier had been useless.  
  
Riccardo smiles, a crooked twitch of his lips, and he seems almost amused by Memo’s sudden inability to form words, “You’re Guillermo, right? Or what should I call you? Spanish names are so complicated.”  
  
“It’s Memo,” Memo finally manages to speak up, a bright flush washing over his face, reaching even his ears, “Memo Ochoa. Only my grandma calls me Guillermo.”  
  
“Well, Memo,” Riccardo rests his elbows on the table between them, leaning forwards as if to take a closer look at Memo, “It seems like we’ve got quite a situation in our hands. Do you wanna talk about it here or should we go somewhere more private?”  
  
Memo thinks his heart might have missed a beat when Riccardo takes a hold of his hand as they walk out of the stadium.  
  
“I— You probably hear this a lot,” he tries to pick up the conversation, give a better impression than his stuttering back in the cubicle, “But you’ve got really pretty eyes.”  
  
Riccardo chuckles, not even looking at Memo as he strides forward, leading him to a taxi waiting right outside the stadium, “You’re right: I do hear that a lot.”  
  
His cold tone shuts Memo up again, and this time he does not dare to open his mouth again as Riccardo gives the driver directions to his hotel.  
  
  
 _File 4: Riccardo_  
  
  
“Make yourself at home. Do you want something to drink?” Riccardo asks Memo as they walk into the two-room suite Pippo had booked for him. Better have enough space, he had told Riccardo, or you are going to drive each other nuts within the first hour.  
  
He walks over to the bar and picks up a bottle of red wine, showing it to Memo with a questioning look, pouring two glasses when he receives a hesitant nod.  
  
The wine is from Andrea’s vineyard in Brescia, nice aged wine Riccardo remembers tasting the first time Andrea invited him over for dinner. Riccardo had brought it with him for the moral support since he could not bring the man in question.  
  
Memo is still standing by the door, studying the suite with awe in his eyes.  
  
He is not half bad looking, Riccardo had concluded the moment he saw him in person – the photo had been promising already, but those files were collected years ago, so it was impossible to know for sure – but he does seem a bit too shy, a bit too proper for Riccardo’s liking.  
  
“It’s okay to sit down, you know,” Riccardo tells him as he walks over and hands him the wineglass, forcing a soothing smile on his face. It is not Memo’s fault they were put together, so the least he can do is make him feel comfortable.  
  
“Thanks,” Memo says softly, following Riccardo into the room and sitting down on the plush couch in the middle of the room, “This room is huge. The newspapers must make lots of money in Italy.”  
  
Riccardo laughs at the comment as he sits down next to Memo – he should have known his appointed spouse would be more interested in his income more than his personality – and shakes his head, “Not really, it’s just a regular job. My friends paid for this. I guess they were relieved to have me out of their hair for the week.”  
  
“Oh,” is all Memo says, and he is blushing again, sipping his wine carefully before offering a curious smile, “Must be nice to have such good friends. My friends couldn’t give a rat’s ass about my life now that they’re married.”  
  
Riccardo tastes the wine too, the familiar flavour immediately making him feel more relaxed, “Maybe you just need to find new friends.”  
  
“Maybe,” Memo admits, and he is obviously starting to feel more comfortable around Riccardo now, “Maybe I can make some in Italy?”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” Riccardo hums absent-mindedly, shaking his glass carefully, watching as the wine twirls in the glass, trying to remember what Andrea told him about the body of good wine during that first dinner.  
  
He cannot remember a thing, and he is not sure if it is because he was too drunk or because he was too mesmerized with the way Andrea’s lips were moving when he talked to him.  
  
Riccardo thinks he should feel bad for Memo, because the Mexican is obviously waiting for a proper marriage, with compliments and romance and companionship and a  _family_.  
  
All the things Riccardo does not want and is not willing to give just because someone tells him it is the right thing to do.  
  
“How old were you again?” Riccardo asks, although he knows the answer after using most of his flight to study the profile sheet, “Twenty-eight, was it? Don’t you have anyone else in Mexico? Someone crying because I’m taking you away from them?”  
  
Memo looks confused, like such a thing had never even crossed his mind. Riccardo feels even worse when he finally answers, “Why would I have anyone else when I was waiting for you? My perfect match.”  
  
“Sorry to disappoint,” Riccardo says curtly, drinking the rest of his wine in one long gulp – Andrea would kill him if he saw him disrespecting his wine like that – “But there’s no such thing as a ‘perfect match’. It’s all politics, the system counting the highest probabilities for keeping people happy and quiet.”  
  
Memo is biting his lip, looking at Riccardo thoughtfully before answering slowly, like considering his every word, “But isn’t that what a perfect match means? Someone who can make you happy for the rest of your life?”  
  
Riccardo does not know whether he should be annoyed with Memo’s stupidity or admire his unblemished world view even at his age, “You think I can make you happy?”  
  
“That’s what the software says,” Memo replies with a shrug, meeting Riccardo’s eyes challengingly, and for a second Riccardo feels like he can see right through him – through his uncaring façade, through the carefully guarded front that hides the boy whose first love was stolen from him – “It’s up to us to make it work. That’s how it is for everyone.”  
  
Riccardo understands at that moment that Memo is not nearly as childish as he first assumed – this is a man who has waited for his assigned partner for almost 29 years, watching the people around him getting married and working to build a future on the cards they had been dealt.  
  
Memo actually understands the system, even through his idealistic dreams and romantic outlook.  
  
“Well, tough luck,” Riccardo huffs, standing up and walking away from the couch, trying to hide how flustered he is, “Because I can’t make even myself happy, never mind anyone else.”  
  
“Then why don’t you let me try?” Memo asks sharply – gone is the shy boy he met at the stadium – and Riccardo can hear him standing up and walking up to him, “We’re gonna get married anyways, that’s the law. So what’s wrong with giving it a chance?”  
  
Riccardo suddenly remembers the time when his and Giampaolo’s appeals to the high court had been rejected – their last hope in overturning the decision to break them up.  
  
Giampaolo had looked so dejected, so hopeless and exhausted, when he finally admitted that there was no other choice but to give the marriage a try. It was either that or facing life imprisonment, not only for Giampaolo but also for Riccardo and Silvia.  
  
Riccardo had yelled at him for giving up too soon, but he had known there was nothing to be done even as he kept screaming and crying and pleading for Giampaolo to stay with him.  
  
They stay silent for a long time, Memo standing right behind Riccardo, so close Riccardo can almost feel his cool breath on the back of his neck.  
  
Then finally after what feels like an eternity, Memo collects his courage and touches Riccardo’s back, sliding his fingers down his spine in a tentative caress that sends shivers running through Riccardo’s body.  
  
It would be so easy to just give in, just let this gentle, understanding, loving man take care of him, mend the wounds Riccardo has been harbouring for years.  
  
But it would also mean admitting defeat, admitting the system might not be as rotten as he has made himself believe.  
  
“You really think you can make me happy?” Riccardo asks in a low voice, turning on his heels to meet Memo’s startled gaze, “You think I need someone to take care of me? To play the good wife?”  
  
He takes a hold of Memo’s arm and flings him towards the four-poster bed, pushing him down on his back on the soft mattress and the satin sheets, climbing on top of him, pinning him down, pushing his knee between Memo’s legs.  
  
“This is all I need from you, and even that I can get elsewhere,” he tells the Mexican harshly, slipping his fingers through the messy curls and tugging him into a forceful kiss, biting the full lips and pushing his tongue inside the unresponsive mouth.  
  
He breaks the kiss only when he can feel Memo’s fingers clawing his back, panicked sounds escaping his throat and against Riccardo’s lips.  
  
There are tears on Memo’s face, his body tense under Riccardo’s and his eyes fearful as he looks up at him.  
  
Suddenly Riccardo feels sick: he is disgusted with himself, because Memo has been nothing but good to him; he does not deserve being treated like shit just because of Riccardo’s stupid complexes; he does not deserve to have a spouse that cannot love him.  
  
Riccardo scrambles up from the bed and rushes through the balcony door, locking it behind him even though he knows the lock can be opened from the inside as well.  
  
Why would Memo want to open the door from the inside, anyways? He would be better off locking Riccardo out here and leaving, that way he would probably get out of this blasted marriage as well.  
  
Riccardo feels tears stinging his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He has no right to cry, not anymore.  
  
  
 _File 5: Riccardo & Memo_  
  
  
Memo does not know how long he stays on the bed, just lying on the dishevelled sheets, the traitorous tears rolling down his face, his whole body shivering from the earlier shock.  
  
It was not supposed to be like this: Memo had been waiting for a strong, confident, grown man who had waited for Memo just as long as Memo had waited for him, but instead he had been handed this broken shell of a boy, hurt so badly Memo is not sure he can be reached anymore.  
  
For a moment, he had thought he had found something in there, some small spark of hope deep beneath the surface, but then Riccardo had attacked him, forced him on the bed, held him down—  
  
A fresh bout of tears falls from Memo’s eyes as he forces himself not to think about what happened.  
  
He had been scared of what Riccardo might do, but what had struck him even more was the wild panic in Riccardo’s eyes when he pulled away, the fear at his own actions, the immediate need to get away.  
  
Memo is afraid of what Riccardo might do if he leaves now. Does he have anyone to turn to? Does he have any way to ease the terrible pain Memo could see in his eyes?  
  
Memo knows he is playing with fire as he drags himself out of the bed and walks over to the glass door leading to the balcony, but he does not know what else he is supposed to do.  
  
He waited for Riccardo all these years, and there must be a reason why they were put together. Maybe the software knows something neither of them does: maybe it is telling Memo he is the only one capable of helping Riccardo.  
  
Maybe the reason they had to wait for so long was not because of the distance, but because they were not ready to face each other until now, not mature enough to make things work.  
  
Riccardo is sitting on the balcony floor with his back against the glass door, his knees pulled up against his chest and his face hidden in his arms. He looks much younger than he actually is, much younger than Memo as well.  
  
Memo does not say a word – he does not know what he is supposed to say – so he just sits down on the floor on the other side of the door, the transparent glass the only thing separating him from his spouse.  
  
“You should leave,” Riccardo’s voice is surprisingly clear, and Memo notices only then that one of the balcony windows is still open, just a small pane meant for ventilation, but still enough to carry Riccardo’s words into the room.  
  
“I should,” he agrees softly, refusing to look over his shoulder at Riccardo, “But I won’t.”  
  
Silence again, but Memo is nothing if not patient – he has waited for almost 29 years, he can wait for a few more hours if that makes a difference.  
  
A phone goes off in the room, an unfamiliar melody from the corner where they left their bags.  
  
“Your phone. Should I get it for you?” Memo asks calmly, leaning his head back against the cool glass.  
  
“No, leave it be!” Riccardo sounds like a stubborn child, nothing like the cool and confident man Memo met earlier today. It almost makes Memo laugh, but he holds his tongue.  
  
The ringing stops after a while, but it is soon replaced by the sound of another phone, this time the landline on the bedside table.  
  
“Sounds important, maybe I should answer it for you?” Memo suggests again, but this time he is met with only silence. The ringing stops after less than a minute, Memo checks from his watch.  
  
When Riccardo’s cell phone starts ringing again, Memo does not bother to ask; instead, he gets up and walks over to Riccardo’s bag and fishes out the smartphone, the name  _Andrea_  flashing on the screen.  
  
“It’s someone called Andrea,” he informs Riccardo, but answers the call before he can get any kind of response, “Hello?”  
  
“Ricky?” a raspy male voice on the other end, a string of quick Italian following the name, and Memo has no idea what he is supposed to say to interrupt him.  
  
“Um, excuse me?” he tries with his shaky English, hoping it is enough for this Andrea to notice he is not talking to Riccardo.  
  
There is a short break on the other end, and then the man switches to Spanish, his accent not nearly as noticeable as Riccardo’s, “I’m sorry. This is Guillermo, right? Where’s Riccardo?”  
  
“Memo, actually,” Memo corrects on instinct, idly wondering who this person is and why he knows his name, “Riccardo— kind of locked himself in the balcony, I’m afraid.”  
  
There is a deep breath on the other end that almost sounds like a muffled chuckle, before Andrea answers softly, “Of course he did.”  
  
Memo glances at the door. Riccardo is looking at Memo over his shoulder, obviously itching to rush in and snatch the phone from his hand, but on the other hand determined to stay as far away from Memo as possible.  
  
“He didn’t do anything to hurt you, did he?” the man asks Memo, only an inkling of worry in his voice, and Memo realizes this Andrea must be someone who knows Riccardo really, really well.  
  
“I— No, nothing, I’m fine,” Memo assures him, the lie slipping off his tongue far too easily for his liking, “We’re just having some problems seeing eye to eye. Differences of opinions.”  
  
Riccardo is now staring at him, unadulterated surprise in his eyes, like he cannot believe Memo is not saying anything about the earlier episode.  
  
“Can I ask him to call you later?” Memo asks carefully, weighing his every word, holding the eye contact with Riccardo, “We’re in the middle of our first date, after all.”  
  
Andrea laughs in relief, and the soft sound is surprisingly comforting even though Memo has never met this man, “It’s okay. I just wanted to make sure he showed up at the meet up, really. It was nice talking to you, Memo. I hope to meet you soon for real.”  
  
“Yeah, you too,” Memo answers, but the line is dead before he finishes the sentence.  
  
“A friend?” he asks Riccardo, waving the smartphone at him as he walks back to the glass door.  
  
“Something like that,” Riccardo mumbles, ducking his head back against his knees, avoiding Memo’s gaze.  
  
“He sounds like a nice person.”  
  
“He is.”  
  
Memo leans his forearms against the door, looking down at Riccardo through the glass, the phone still in his hand, “Can I come out there? I just wanna talk. You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”  
  
He waits for one, two, three minutes, and then finally Riccardo moves away from the door, allowing Memo to open the lock and push the glass panel separating them to the side.  
  
Riccardo is still sitting on the floor, now leaning on the wall next to the door, but at least he is meeting Memo’s eyes, not quite able to hide his curiosity anymore.  
  
“Look, I don’t know what shit you’ve been through in the past,” Memo cuts straight to the business, because he does not know how long he will have Riccardo’s undivided attention, “But we need to work together. We’re stuck with each other, and there’s nothing we can do about that.”  
  
There are tears in Riccardo’s eyes, Memo notices with a start, but he does not dare to kneel down and wipe them away, the last time he touched Riccardo still in too fresh memory.  
  
“I’ve waited too long for this. I actually thought there was no one out there for me at all, but then the letter finally came. And I’ll be damned if I give up on you without even trying,” Memo tousles his own hair nervously, his fingers tangling in the unruly curls. He is horrible at giving speeches.  
  
“I don’t love you – hell, I don’t even know you – so I’m not asking you to love me either. I’m just asking you to treat me as your equal, because that’s what we’re supposed to be. And then we can see where it goes from there.”  
  
Riccardo is looking up at him as he speaks, the tears still glistering in his eyes, refusing to fall even though Memo is sure his sight is getting blurry by now. Riccardo runs the tip of his tongue over his lips, opening his mouth a couple of times before finally speaking up.  
  
“You really think it’s gonna work?”  
  
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Memo shrugs, and then he finally crouches down in front of Riccardo, until they are on eyelevel, “Best case scenario, we live happily ever after. Worst case, we sleep in separate rooms and keep on living our separate lives. You can go back to that Andrea or whoever else you were with before I came along, I won’t mind. I just want you to give me a chance first. I just want you to be honest with me.”  
  
“I’m really bad at honesty,” Riccardo whispers, but one corner of his mouth is twitching, a half-smile that is actually more than what Memo was expecting.  
  
“But you can try?” Memo asks, unable to keep the hopefulness out of his voice any longer.  
  
“Do I have a choice?” Riccardo retorts dryly, rolling his eyes before wiping the traitorous tears away with the back of his hand.  
  
They truly are the most beautiful eyes Memo has ever seen, and despite his earlier promises, he cannot resist the urge to lean in and press a chaste kiss on Riccardo’s lips.  
  
“Sorry,” he breathes out as he pulls back, biting his lip hesitantly as he looks Riccardo in the eyes, afraid of what he might find in there.  
  
Riccardo only smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. It might not be the most genuine smile Memo has ever seen, but it is still Riccardo making an effort, and that is good enough for now.  
  
” _Piacere di conoscerti. Il mio nome è Memo Ochoa,_ ” finally Memo can say those well-practiced words out loud. It is as good a place to start as any, he figures.  
  
“Nice to meet you too, Memo,” Riccardo replies in Spanish, offering his hand to Memo who shakes it after only a moment’s hesitation, “My name is Riccardo Montolivo. I’m your future husband.”

**Author's Note:**

> Memo being a dolphin trainer was inspired by [these beautiful photos](http://didierdeschamps.tumblr.com/post/90288027139/ochoa-dolphins).  
> Pippo and Andrea are more or less the same as in real life, with the obvious difference that they’re married to each other and everything that comes with that. ~~Another ship I need to write more of, like, right now.~~
> 
> I really like this trope, so I might be willing to write some other stories set in this same universe if requested, but I must warn you that I don’t really know much about players outside Italy. Still, I’m open for requests! ~~Looking at you, wonderful anon who gave me this idea in the first place!~~
> 
> I’m definitely considering a sequel for this story as well, because if this ending is not the best excuse to write more Memo/Monto (memonto between friends), then I don’t know what is.


End file.
